We like to think of our little nook in Fairfield as largely impervious to the slings and arrows of outrageous weather, and usually it is. When it rains torrents a couple minutes down the road in Williston, Fairfield allows only a bracing shower. When gale winds topple trees in nearby Reddick, gentle zephyrs shoo the occasional hawk from his perch out our way. There is no apparent reason for this leniency on the part of Universe Control and we’re not asking any nosy questions, content to let sleeping Gods lie. Imagine our surprise then when, last Saturday night, the Sun goes down, the tide goes out, the people gather round and they all begin to shout as a clanghonker of a monsoon buries us beneath 7+ inches of rain. In downtown Ocala, twenty-five miles south, a couple of innocent showers yawned and slouched away. The ill-mannered Ocalans pointed at us and laughed, delighted with their unexpected revenge.
Our south paddock is 60% under water, if water is what it could be called—a strange brew of dark mire filled with floating sticks and mysterious debris that only shows up during such occasions. The barn is high and dry, providing our mares, Dot and Wanda, a safe island of normalcy in the Sargasso Sea surrounding. Adjoining properties are likewise compromised and nearby County Road 316 was closed for a few hours when unaware autoists kept disappearing into the ooze of the darking night. Dire as the situation may be, there are always murky opportunists who will take advantage of any misfortune. Not long after the dam broke, entrepreneurial neighbor Hal Hollis broke out his gondola and started offering guided water tours of the area. Loath as we are to criticize our friends, Hal definitely needs a little work on his O Sole Mio.
The flood is receding as we write and normalcy is but a few days off. We are moving on to visions of sugar plums dancing in our heads, as Siobhan in her kerchief and I in my cap will soon settle down for a long winter’s nap. Our strife seems meager as we eye the television weather maps and view vehicles of all descriptions sliding sideways down the asphalt everywhere from Texas to Transylvania. They posted a big national map on the TV news a couple days ago which was entirely blue except for the tiny pulsating red corner which was Florida. We are not smug, however. We have experiences in these atrocious conditions and we feel your pain. From a distance, of course. From a nice, comfortable distance. It is at times like this we wistfully recall many of our friends telling us they like living up north because “we enjoy the changing of the seasons.” This is completely understandable, of course….we like the changing of the seasons ourselves, for the most part. We absolutely LOVE the one where Winter changes into Spring. And oh, the Summer turning to Fall is just a cork-popper. We’d just like to talk to somebody about the little problem of Fall turning to Winter, during which all the hairs in your nose freeze, your earlobes pulse like a runaway heart and all your digits go numb. And could we do something about all those icicles hanging from the eaves so one of them doesn’t penetrate our personal skull? If they can send a man to the moon, why can’t somebody figure out the icicle problem? Oh well, what’s Christmas without a little adverse weather, a few feet of snow for Santa’s sleigh? Nobody likes holiday cards with pictures of palm trees, right? So wherever you are, whatever your conditions, make the best of them and enjoy the many Fruits of Christmas. We’ll be thinking of you, grateful for the friends and family which comprise our little blog crew, happy you made it through another year. Keep the lovelight glowing. As Deb Peterson is fond of saying, “All you need is gloves!” And, speak of the devil:
A Letter From Oregon
You’re right about poor kids being stuck with rotten names. I had a student once named “Lavoris Ricketts.” What a bargain—named after a mouthwash AND a disease.
Oh, and who can forget another kid pronounced Fa-Mah-Lee, as in tamale. HER mother said her doctor had named her, which seemed odd. Turned out she was talking about the wristband some hospitals put on girls identifying their gender, as in “female” or Fa-Mah-Lee to you.
In the further spirit of wacky names, here are some unfortunate wedding announcements with real, honest-to-God names of actual brides and grooms:
1. Traylor-Hooker
2. Best-Lay
3. Wang-Holder
4. Beaver-Wetter
5. Looney-Warde
6. Busch-Rash
7. Long-Wiwi
8. Kuntz-Dick
9. Fillerup-Standing
10. MacDonald-Berger
11. Filler-Quick
12 Butts-McCracken
Salaciously,
Deb Peterson
Deb is proving to be such a great resource, we’re considering giving her a column of her own. And speaking of letters, you’ll remember we asked to hear from our friends from Malaysia. This is what we got:
A Letter From “Malaysia”
Dear Mr. Killeen,
We here at Maggie Choo’s Bar in old Kuala Lumpur wish to inform you that we are the loyal followers of your “blog,” not those filthy opium-heads who reside night and day at the Zouk Club, which, as everyone knows, is nothing more than a front for a brothel frequented by Saudi Sheiks and wealthy, elderly sex tourists from America.
You are correct that we await your weekly missive with eager anticipation. (That is me, Bakhtiar, with my Bakh to the camera, making certain that the wireless “hotspot” is working before the rest of our group arrives.) We love horse, so we are always interested in your efforts to raise strong horse and earn some dollars U.S. from them through racing before turning them in to meat processor. You are a most jovial man with excellent Western-style sense of humor using the sarcasm quite liberally. However, we continue to wait for recipe for “frying pie,” which is delicacy here in Malaysia, usually prepared with horse.
In case you are wondering how it happens my English is so good, my father was an American army officer who visited Kuala Lumpur frequently during the 1970s when he was stationed in Vietnam. Thus it happened that I was able to attend the American School here for several years until my mother married a Chinese animal-parts exporter.
Salutations!
Bakhtar and the gang
We were extremely happy to hear from Bakhtar, of course, until we looked a little deeper into Maggie Choo’s and realized the place was located in Bangkok, which—last time we looked—seemed to be in Thailand. That being the case, we knew right away the culprit must be our old Tennessee pal, Court Lewis, a long-time Thai aficionado. Perhaps we scared away the Malaysians, since our readership there dwindled to five last week. Whenever we mention a particular group of lurkers, they seem to disappear in a cloud of dust, possibly fretful the government may be checking for potential troublemakers. Or it could be that it takes more than one Malaysian week to digest all the psychological ramifications of a single Flying Pie column. At any rate, we’re still waiting to hear from somebody….anybody….in Malaysia. Or even Thailand, for that matter.
It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Riot Gas
Tonight, Siobhan and I mosey on down to the Mall at Millenia in Orlando to fulfill our Christmas shopping responsibilities. Being a happy and interested shopper, I enjoy the experience. Siobhan, known in some circles as The Grinch, tolerates it. We do some of our shopping together but eventually split up and take different paths, the better to sneak in some wonderful surprise which will shock and delight our appreciative partner. That’s the plan, anyway. Needless to say, the place will be crammed with busy and apprehensive shoppers, desperate for a last-minute fix, careening madly down the corridors, wild-eyed in panic as they contemplate unfilled gift lists. This is all fine with me. I like the hubbub, the cheery music, the magnificent decorations, the squawly kids pleading for extrication from the giant paws of a fearsome Santa Claus. ‘Tis the season to be jolly and I’m keeping up my end of the deal.
We have friends, of course, who smugly point out that all their Christmas shopping is done by July. I think this should be against the rules. The official present-buying starting day should be no earlier than the day after Thanksgiving. You’ll be noticing here that I did not approve the starting date as the actual day of Thanksgiving itself, which puts me in dire conflict with Walmart and all its tawdry pals who this year decided they just couldn’t wait one second longer to swing wide the doors for the ravenous packs of helmeted lunatics assembled outside. The Oklahoma Land Rush had nothing on these barbarians, who charge through the portals in brilliant war-paint, jagged spears waving in all directions, looking to save $30 on the latest devices for armpit hygiene. It’s a mess.
The TV news folks love these giant melees, of course, so they are encamped in droves waiting for the referees to throw out the first box-knife wielder. The real fun occurs when there are like, three fabulous items available for a dollar-and-a-half, marked down—allegedly—from seven hundred dollars and desired by oh, say, twenty billion people. “GENTLEWOMEN—START YOUR ENGINES!!!” I have never been on scene for these exciting activities but I have seen certified television evidence of customers of previously sound mind crossly bopping their neighbors on the beezer and swinging very large product boxes around as if they were feather-filled with the deranged intention of displacing some rival’s very noggin. It’s not a pretty sight.
All of this occurs, according to Walmart (new motto: We Want MORE!), because their customers demand it. We out here in the Klondike may be the last to find out but we swear we never heard of one single person who felt it urgent to begin Christmas shopping on Thanksgiving day. Nope, every last one of them was perfectly happy to choke down three vats of coffee, don a couple of parkas and show up at the usual starting time of 4 a.m. the next morning. It was practically an American tradition. But now the poor schlubs who work for Walmart and its dubious cronies have to abandon their families, parade in on Thanksgiving and begin adjusting their face masks, shoulder pads and shin guards to better contend with the onslaught. Good thing Walmart is so concerned, as they are always telling us, with The American Family. Otherwise, the whole sordid affair might begin on Halloween, maybe even Labor Day. Oops, hold on a minute there, Bill. Don’t want to be giving them any ideas.
And Finally, In The Immortal Words Of Walt Kelly….
Deck us all with Boston Charlie,
Walla Walla, Wash., and Kalamazoo!
Nora’s freezin’ on the trolley,
Swaller dollar cauliflower, alley-garoo!
Don’t we know archaic barrel
Lullaby Lilla Boy, Louisville Lou?
Trolley Molly don’t love Harold,
Boola boola Pensacoola, hullabaloo!
That’s all, folks….
